


Face It All Together

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They sat in silence. As the moment stretched, Bond tried to think of a way to pose the question he wanted to ask, but he'd been thinking about that for days and he still hadn't hit on the perfect phrasing. In the end, he jumped in. As always, it was the only way to move forward. 'I want you to be my next of kin.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face It All Together

The potential buyers backed out of the deal for Skyfall.

Bond couldn't say he was surprised by that. He wasn't surprised, either, when they brought suit against him for breach of contract, although since he never signed a contract and the damage to the property was done in pursuit of a dangerous, internationally wanted criminal, he didn't rate their chances at winning. He let the army of MI6 solicitors deal with it. He was too busy with other things. So busy, in fact, that three years passed before he was back in Scotland again. 

The place hadn't changed. The shell of the house stood exactly as it had the night they blew it to hell, although Bond noticed a copse of tall weeds poking through what had once been the oak-panelled walls of the drawing room, and a large bird on a larger nest looked at him and cawed defensively as he passed through the former dining room. He smiled. Nature reclaiming what had always been hers. Even the Aston Martin was returning to the Earth, spiny thistles growing around the remnants of the engine block and gorse threading its way through the wheels.

He had kept Kincade on. With the sale falling through, the land was still his, Bond explained, and he wanted it and the few remaining outbuildings properly cared for. It was more of a pension than anything else, really, a reward for years of dedicated service. Kincade had built a home for himself, a little cottage up the hill from what remained of the house. Bond strode up to it, past the helicopter-flattened grass, hunching his shoulders against the cold wind that seemed to blow perpetually in this part of the world. Bond had expected Kincade to emerge when the helicopter dropped him off. Sure enough, when he got to the cottage, there was a note Sellotaped to the front door. _Gone to the village, back this evening._

Bond couldn't blame Kincade. He'd been vague in the extreme as to his plans, saying only he thought he might be coming up sometime this week. He'd been just as noncommittal at work. When he told Moneypenny he would be unreachable until Monday morning, she looked at him and said, “Planning a dirty weekend?” in tone that clearly strove to be jovial and turned out jealous.

“Wish I could, darling,” Bond replied, smiling. “But I'm afraid the country couldn't survive if you and I both went on holiday.” He winked and left her laughing, the way he always did.

Bond glanced at his watch. Three minutes to the hour. He put his hands in his pockets and began to walk down the hill, back toward the ruined house. An unobtrusive black car, a Toyota or a Honda or something equally dismal, appeared in the distance, right on time. 

It pulled up to the house and parked beside the charred skeleton of the Aston Martin. Through the window, Bond could see the passenger's seat was covered in a jumble of unrecognizable electronics. When Bond opened the door, the first words out of Q's mouth were, “I can't get a single signal out here. I can't believe it. I've spoken with operatives in the middle of the Gobi desert as clearly as if they were right in front of me, and here, we may as well be on Jupiter.” He frowned. “Actually, no, I probably could get a signal to Jupiter, if I had the right budget and enough time...”

“Nice to see you, too.” 

Q sighed and reached over, pushing the pile of high-tech junk into the back seat. Bond sat down, closing the door against that biting wind. 

“So this is it,” Q said, looking around.

“It is,” Bond agreed. They sat with their backs to the chapel, which relieved Bond. He didn't want to talk about that place, not yet, and, for a secret agent, Q was surprisingly unfamiliar with the concept of not discussing something. 

“I'm sure it was impressive, in its day.” Q furrowed his eyebrows, as if trying to conjure up a mental image of Skyfall as it had been.

“It was.” 

“Bloody impressive when it went up in flames, too, I bet.”

Bond nodded. “It went out with a bang.” Many, in fact. 

“That's all any of us can hope for.” 

They sat in silence. As the moment stretched, Bond tried to think of a way to pose the question he wanted to ask, but he'd been thinking about that for days and he still hadn't hit on the perfect phrasing. In the end, he jumped in. As always, it was the only way to move forward. “I want you to be my next of kin.”

Q didn't look at him. His expression didn't change, but he took one hand off the steering wheel and rested it on his knee, rucking up the fabric of some godawful beige trousers made for a man three times his age. “Why?”

It was a good question. They weren't monogamous. Bond wasn't capable of that, and he respected Q too much to make promises he couldn't keep. He still had his women when he was out in the field, and he assumed Q had others, as well. Men or women or both. Bond didn't know, and didn't care to speculate.

But Bond trusted Q, which was more than he could say for anyone else. And, while it was a risk, it was a calculated one. The new M—and he was still the “new M” to Bond, even after three years—would keep the information confidential, and the only way anyone would find out was if Bond died again. He didn't plan on it, but if it happened, Bond took some small comfort in knowing Q would be offered the sympathy and support appropriate to someone in his position. Even though Q wouldn't accept either. 

“When I died,” Bond said, “people I didn't know packed up my things and sold them.”

“You'd rather it was someone you knew?”

“I'd rather it was someone who knew me.” 

More silence. A vague sense of uneasiness crept into Bond, its icy fingers squeezing his insides. He countered that in his usual way, with affected casualness. “Come on, let's get out of here. We'll find some little B and B and sign in as Mr. and Mrs.”

Q looked up. “How do you plan on taking my surname when you don't know what it is?”

Bond smiled. “I'll improvise.”

He waited, but Q didn't start the car. His other hand went to his other knee, fidgeting. Just as Bond was about to quip again, Q leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, his tongue slipping between Bond's lips and his glasses nudging Bond's nose. 

Q was good at kissing, and at everything else. It had been a very welcome and very pleasant surprise to Bond, who'd thought, as they came together that first time in a dark, unwatched corner of the new MI6 building, that he might be dealing with a virgin. Q was no virgin, and he was no shrinking violet. When he pulled away, his mouth wet and his eyes wide, Bond felt a renewed urge to get to that little B and B. Emphasis on the first B.

“I love you, too,” Q said, and he put the car into gear.


End file.
